The minefield

I don't know what your experiences have been or if you've dealt with grief in your life, but if you haven't, let me say this: grief is probably not what you think it is.

In the first world, almost every event runs on some kind of timeline. There's even a timeline in the way we handle the mechanics of death and burial: the time of the memorial service, the interment or cremation, the paperwork to be filled out, the people to inform, all fit a kind of macabre schedule. But grief doesn't work like that. It's not something that can be scheduled, like a vacation or a work meeting. It's not something that runs like a season, ending promptly at an equinox. It doesn't hew to any particular time frame. It is a force unto itself.

Grief is like being forced to march through a minefield. The mines are randomly scattered everywhere, just under the soil, and there's no way to tell by looking whether an open stretch of ground is safe or strewn with mines. The only way to find out is to move across it. Whenever you step on a mine -- because you will -- and it goes off, a blast of grief overwhelms you and shuts you down. And at first, this happens a lot. At first, the ground is particularly treacherous and any patch of ground could be harboring a mine. But as you continue to traverse the minefield, more and more of the mines are gone because you've already blown them up. Still, the greater the love you had, the more intense the grief is, and the more likely it is that you'll step on another mine, even long after you think the field is empty.

Right now I'm dealing with a lot of land mines. I went into QFC today intending to buy a few things, but I saw something in there that made me leave almost immediately. I didn't want the other shoppers to think I was crazy for standing in front of a display of Australian licorice, bawling like an infant under my disposable mask. I didn't want to explain to strangers what was going through my mind ("Ooh, I should get some of those for M--") just before the mine went off. So I went and sat in my car for a while, and cried until I was hollow.

It'll be a while before I can look at soft black licorice without thinking of Mom. It'll be a while before I can catch the scent of rose perfume without feeling that hollow emptiness of loss. It'll be a while before I can sing the hymn "How Great Thou Art" without thinking of my brother Dan, who hates to cry, choking up on the final verse as he sang it at Mom's funeral. I think most people know this instinctively, even if they haven't gone through grief themselves, and that's why they often give those who are grieving a wide berth. It's uncomfortable, not knowing what to say or how to deal with people who might break down at any moment over some little thing that reminds them the grief isn't done with them yet.

If you see this behavior coming from me or any of my family, please be patient with us. We're trying to work our way through a minefield, and it might take a while.